[paris] monster mash. [tag; arkasha]

It was a foul night.

Autumn had descended on Paris with a vengeance. The air was bitterly cold, transformed into strong gales that stripped the trees of their remaining copper coloured leaves, sending them twisting and turning with force. It was raining now, the fat drops pelting against the windows and dripping down the panes. The streetlights put up a valiant effort but seemed diluted in the cloudy inky black night.

It was Halloween and it showed. In the dinky apartment, it was lit by the low flickering light of cinnamon scented candles. Angelic fairy lights were wrapped around the curtain poles and soft jazz was playing from unseen speakers. There was a bottle of red wine, almost empty, on the table, glinting in the soft glow. It'd be all very romantic, had she not been handling a blade.

The curtains were open and the rain soaked Parisian light came trickling through. Resting on the newspaper covered table were two fat, brightly orange and lopsided pumpkins. Florence's long blonde hair was tied up into a ponytail and on her head sat a pair of sparkling jet black cat ears and she offered her husband a goofy grin.

It was time like these that their cultural differences became apparent. As far as things went, the French weren't overly mad on Halloween but she was. She loved it. For her, it was the culmination of all things autumnal. From the cold nights to roaring fires to spooky tales. She imagined it was a bit of a confusing ordeal for Arkadiy.

"Okay," she said gently as she scooped out the stringy, mushy innards of her gourd with care before wiping her hands on a cloth. "I know this seems weird," she told her husband as she picked up her knife. "But there's a reason why people carve pumpkins on Halloween. Story goes, once upon a time, there was a drunk guy called Stingy Jack," she replied, flicking her eyes up to Arkasha's with a smile. "One night, he asks the devil to come and have a drink with him and for some reason, he agrees. When the bill came, there was a bit of an awkward moment. Jack thought the devil was going to pay and vice versa. Jack, having spent all of his money on booze, convinced the devil to change himself into a coin so he could pay the barman. The devil fell for it so Jack skipped on the bill and kept the devil at bay by slipping the coin into his pocket, next to a silver cross."

As Florence spoke, she moved the knife across the pumpkin with dexterous care and skill. It was like she'd handled a blade before. Her fingers delicately picked out chunks of cut pumpkin and rested them on the side. "Eventually, Jack let the devil out, providing he wouldn't come and find him for a period of ten years. When his time was up, the devil came back," she explained as she moved her wrist in precise slicing motions. "The devil was clearly a bit silly as Jack convinced him to climb a tree and get him an apple. While the devil was up the tree, Jack carved a cross into the trunk, leaving him trapped once more. Wine?" With that, she topped up the glasses.

"Jack must have felt bad because he let the devil down, providing he'd never claim his soul for Hell. Years later, when Jack died, he was rejected from Heaven, on account of his dubious dealings. The devil wouldn't and couldn't take him into Hell, due to the agreement in the tree. So, in the end, Jack was given a lump of coal to light his way through purgatory and he carried it in a hollowed out turnip. How a turnip became a pumpkin, I dunno," she admitted with a shrug.

"So, people started carving their own turnips and putting them on windowsills and doorways to scare away and ward off any spirits. Tada," with that, she turned her pumpkin around to face Arkadiy. Florence had carved a fairytale scene onto her pumpkin as she dropped in a candle to light it. There were long and curved trees, a clear path running up the pumpkin, flanked by woodland creatures and a big moon, which exposed the most light. It looked like a traditional spooky night scene that all children were familiar with.

Looking up, she offered him another grin. "Does that sort of explain things a little more?" She asked with a smile as she tilted her head, her cat ear headband catching the light and twinkling. Absently, she picked up a marshmallow and began to toast it over the candle's flame. "Trick or treat's a bit weird," she added with a frown. "Basically, when the year end and another begins, people think they overlap so demons can walk the earth. By dressing up, any demons you see will think you’re one of them, so you're safe."

Just then, there was a knock at the door and the cry of trick or treat! echoed through the apartment. Florence grinned again. "Shall we pretend that we aren't home?"


@Arkadiy Malenkov

He had only the briefest of moments of hesitation before agreeing to all of this. He was typically not a costume-oriented man; sure, he enjoyed roleplay as much as the next guy, but this seemed to have a much less sexy return for him. Arkadiy Maksimovich had spent hours in front of the mirror meticulously styling his hair into a coif to perfectly match the photo Florence had provided him. She had found the rest of his outfit at Les Puces, of course. Where else could one find a low cut, bedazzled white jumpsuit in Paris? he didn’t know who Elvis was, but he also wasn’t about to say no to his wife.

And that was the very reason he was carving into a pumpkin, the small knife held clumsily in his heavily-ringed fingers. Halloween was a very new thing for him and he was blindly accepting everything she told him about the ‘holiday’. The costumes, the decorations, the candy. The bottle of wine was certainly making him much more accepting of everything.

There was a very apparent reason he painted pictures with words rather than with actual paint: he had zero artistic talent. He was simultaneously trying to listen to his wife and somehow manage to not slice a finger off in the process. He was eagerly waiting for Florence to head to the toilet, prepared to take advantage of his moment alone to magic the damned pumpkin into something more bearable to look at than what he was currently headed toward. Looking up at the offer of more wine, Arkasha nodded, setting aside his knife to hold out his empty glass to her. He took a much larger swig of it than was really appropriate for such a dry red wine and he grimaced as he swallowed. But Florence was paying him no attention, her focus quickly back on her pumpkin and her story.

“Hmm,” he offered when she came to a pause in her story, something about turnips and pumpkins, he wasn’t sure what exactly as he had been lost in his attempts to follow her somewhere towards the beginning. But he was certainly paying attention when she presented her work to him, grinning despite his frustration with his own. “Beautiful as usual,” he said with a nod, turning his pumpkin around so that she could have a turn at being marveled.

Except the pumpkin looked like something a child would attempt, but even a child might have been more successful. Lopsided triangles were dotted around in his version of what a face should look like, one for each eye and the nose and a much larger and longer one for the mouth. It was closer to something Picasso might envision, but as Arkasha had very little knowledge of muggle painters, he couldn’t very well claim him as inspiration. Instead he shrugged and took another large swig of wine, this time very much on purpose.

“Yes of course,” he replied as she asked if it all made sense now. It didn’t, but he wasn’t about to let his confusion ruin the good mood and atmosphere she had created for them. He turned the pumpkin’s face back towards him and set to cleaning up a few of the lines, determined to make it look at least somewhat presentable. “I would like to see a demon who dresses like this,” he jabbed one thumb toward his chest, narrowly avoiding making a mess of pumpkin goop on the fabric.

Arkasha nearly left his shoes he jumped so badly at the knock on the door. He couldn’t remember that being part of the things she had explained, just that they ask trick or treat and no, it wasn’t socially acceptable to give them tricks like he wanted. Still, he wasn’t about to let all the hard work he had put into his hair go unappreciated. “No, I want people to admire me,” he stated with a firm nod, slightly missing the correct words he was looking for to explain that he just wanted to be seen in costume.

He wiped his hands on a nearby towel and threw the door open, the tray full of little wrapped truffles held up in front of him. There was a handful of children and he handed them all a piece of candy, one by one, saying “One for you and one for you,” on down the line until the last child, a small girl dressed up like a witch or her best interpretation of one: long black hair, pointy black hat, black nails, and a large, obviously fake wart attached to her nose. While he had seen witches like this, of course, he was taken aback at the costume. “That is offensive,” he said sternly, withholding her candy and retreating back inside, closing the door behind him. “She was a,” he paused, fishing for the word in French, then English, before settling on saying, “Caricature of witch,” in Russian with a shrug.

He unwrapped the candy that should have belonged to the girl and ate it with another shrug. “Halloween is confusing.”

Florence tilted her head and smiled. It was clear to her that Arkasha wasn't having that much fun with the idea, the pumpkin and his costume. Her smiled dimmed somewhat before the overriding realisation that he was doing this purely for her dawned. She didn't know much about his childhood, as opposed to that it was wildly different from hers. It was like he had next to no knowledge of the Muggle world, like it was completely uncharted territory which was why this must be such a culture shock for him.

"I love it!" Florence gushed, her eyes lighting up as Arkadiy's pumpkin was revealed and she reached out for his eagerly. With an artist's eye, she examined it. She liked that it was a bit clumsy and crude and lopsided. It all added to its charm. Her enthusiasm was genuine and not sarcastic as she hastily lit a small candle and dropped it into his pumpkin and surveyed it.

She offered her husband a grin, suddenly wishing she'd done something similar. Hers was fussy and too precise and the way the triangular eyes of his pumpkin were casting long shadows on the walls were way spookier than her rickety trees. "It's perfect," she insisted brightly. "I like his nose," she told Arkasha, touching it softly. She liked its smile, too. "Let's put it here." With that, she reached out for it, cradling it carefully before placing it pride of place on the nearest windowsill.

Her husband's complaint about his outfit made her swallow a giggle. "A sexy demon?" Florence asked lightly as she drew closer, sashaying, her cat's tail swishing as she came up behind him. She placed her hands on his shoulders, sliding them down the deep V in the jumpsuit and slid her fingers part way down his chest before stopping. "Costumes don't have to be scary," she added, trying to clear things up for him. "They used to be but now, it's pretty much anything goes. I'm a witch's familiar," she said as she stepped back and spun in a tight circle, her cat ears wiggling as she did so.

"Oh okay," the tall blonde replied with a lopsided grin as he gathered up the sweets. Casually, she leaned on the door frame as she watched him hand out the goodies. Her initial thought was that he'd make a great dad one day. He was clearly having fun, even if he denied it. He doled out the candy meticulously, insuring each child received one. Feeling warm and fuzzy, she turned and opened another bottle of wine, their second, and filled up the glasses, jumping slightly as he returned so soon.

Florence's jaw dropped.

Momentarily, she was stunned as she watched Arkasha unwrap the truffle and eat it. "Did you just --" she stammered, pointing to the door that he'd slammed shut. Her ideas that he might make a good father disintegrated before a giggle bubbled up from deep within her stomach. Fearing she was being rude, she clamped a hand over her mouth, stifling a snort as she crossed the short distance between them and kissing him soundly.

The audaciousness of his action was wildly amusing as she shook her head. The fact that he was deadly seriously was somehow making it funnier, like when she was told off by a teacher at Beauxbatons and she couldn't stop giggling. Gently, she placed her hands on his chest as she looked up at him, her eyeliner slightly smudged from the tears of mirth that had formed. She opened her mouth to try and explain that Muggles knew no different. In times gone by, witches were portrayed as ugly, straggly old women who were evil and threatening. The little girl must have been about six years old, the poor thing. It made it all the more hilarious.

"I know," she soothed him gently with a sympathetic nod. "But thanks for trying. Next year, we can do something different?" She asked with a smile. Her long blonde hair was tied back into a neat ponytail, her curls cascading down her back and her perfectly applied cat-eyeliner looked less than perfect. She still had her drawn on nose and whiskers, which all things considered, was a bit of an achievement. "Thanks for defending my honour."

Florence made the executive decision not to answer the door to any more trick or treaters as she bolted the door and kicked off her black boots, wiggling her bare toes as she took the tray of chocolates and collapsed on the squidgy sofa. Swiftly, she patted the empty space next to her in an invitation for him to sit down. She liked it when their dinky apartment was low-lit.

It was easy to ignore the Victorian plumping and lack of usable space if the living room was bathed in candlelight. Arkadiy's pumpkin was smiling away nearby as she settled down, one hand full of chocolate and the other holding a bottle of wine. Just then, there was another knock at the door, to which she promptly answered "otvali!" with force as she threw a wrapped truffle at the door with a bang! Maybe she wasn't ready to be a mother, either. "More wine?" She asked sweetly as she held up the bottle.

Arkasha narrowed his gaze as his wife stifled a laugh behind her hand. “What?” he asked with one eyebrow raised, knowing she was far too nice to outright tell him he had done something wrong. He cleared his mouth of chocolate just in time for her kiss and he smiled a goofy grin as she stepped back, assuming that was yet another Halloween tradition, one that he was perfectly content with. He shrugged at her suggestion; he was clearly willing to do whatever Florence wanted, if his Elvis impersonation could serve as evidence, but the promise of doing something different next year was very tempting. They could still incorporate some version of her cat outfit in his version of things.

“Of course.” The man puffed up his chest in pride, made all the more obvious by the very deep v-cut of this jumpsuit. He would do whatever it took to defend her honor. Luckily for the girl, he had left his wand behind on the pumpkin carving table as there was absolutely no room to store it in his skin-tight suit.

He watched with another puzzled look as Florence locked the door, grabbing another chocolate from the tray she had snatched up as she passed him by again. He didn’t hesitate at all before accepting her invitation; he brought their wine glasses with him, though his was empty by the time he was settling into his spot next to his wife. It was a tough debate, deciding if he wanted to drink more wine or lay his head on her lap. He compromised, determined to drink the rest of the wine quickly so he was only left with the other option.

It was his turn to suppress a laugh, though he was much less successful at not snorting through the hand he was covering his mouth with. Florence had taken quickly to Russian, especially the little tidbits that she had picked up outside of semi-formal lessons (mostly things she had learned from his babushka, he later learned). This was one of the more mild things, but he didn’t love it any less.

“Yes, of course,” he said once he had mostly regathered his composure. He held out his empty glass to her, asking for a “Little more,” once she had filled it to the halfway point.

Arkasha was fairly good at pretending that he and Florence were the only two people in the world, let alone in Paris, but in the five minutes that had passed since the first knock on the door, already there came another one. When did Paris sprout so many children? “My turn,” he said quickly, getting his words in before Florence could waste another chocolate on the door. He pointed his wand at the door with a cheeky grin and a couple seconds passed with nothing happening.

Then another knock on the door came and a low growl slowly emitted from the door, heard as clearly on this side as it was on the hallway side. The growl grew in intensity before being met with a very realistic scream. Arkasha giggled between large sips of wine. “Kolya taught me that one,” he said, referring to his older brother that had used that trick on him on countless occasions (usually in the middle of the night when he needed the toilet) before finally telling him how it was done.

“The ‘trick’ part,” he said with a nod, setting his nearing empty glass of wine on the table in front of him before rearranging himself to rest his head on Florence’s lap, being careful not to muss up his meticulously styled hair.

The charm on the door ought to last an hour or so, so ignoring the growls and screams, they would be left in peace. “What else do we do on Halloween?” He had so far ruined pumpkins and answering the door, but he was sure there was something else he could get horribly wrong before the night was over.

"Nothing," Florence replied innocently with wide eyes before softening slightly and biting her lip gently. "You're perfect, that's all," she added casually. Compliments came tripping off her tongue easily and she did sometimes stop to wonder if it made him uncomfortable. It wasn't her fault, though. She just had too much love contained in her tiny body that she got frustrated that she wasn't as eloquent as Arkasha was at explaining it. Her declarations tended to come in staring fits and surprise tackles.

Okay cool, they were down to snuggle.

With care, she filled her husband's glass, almost to the brim as he'd wanted more before doing the same and taking a sip. The good thing about living in one of the more shabby arrondissemonts of Paris was the close proximity to the staggering array of cheap wines. Now Florence was no expert but their dinky little fridge absolutely held more alcohol than food.

As always, she slumped against Arkadiy's side, her chin on his shoulder as though they fit together like cosmic jigsaw pieces. Reaching behind her, she grabbed the creamy coloured blanket that served as a throw, ready to get themselves cocooned up in it when another knock shattered the peace. Florence sighed, annoyed as she blew at a lock of her hair; what started out in jest was now really starting to piss her off. Poised and ready to strike, she paused when told that he had it under control.

Florence tilted her head as nothing happened but she was intrigued by that grin that frequently got her into trouble. With her eyebrows arched, she blinked before an odd noise made her flinch and she almost spilled her wine. Then, it grew louder and she instinctively clung onto him a little more tightly and the bloodcurdling scream was soon followed by the frantically disappearing sound of footsteps.

"See?" The artist gushed with a grin. "You do understand it! How wonderful. That might come in handy, actually," she added softly with a thoughtful frown as she twiddled a stray piece of hair around her ring finger. They were pretty good at keeping their interactions at home but as of late, making out in alleyways was a thing and she was into it. She was also keen not to be disturbed. "I love it," she grinned back as the door responded yet again. "I wonder if any kiddies have dropped their goodie bags," she added. "Maybe we can check later on. To the victor go the spoils~"

She found Arkasha's weight very comforting as she arranged the blanket over his body to keep him warm. Out of habit, her slender fingers began to gently stroke his hair. She knew he'd worked hard on his 'do but she couldn't help it. When near him, she had the overwhelming desire to touch. She dragged the tips over his scalp in slow, soothing motions. It was relatively peaceful with the softly lit candles and warm blanket and the occasional child, fearing for their life.

"Well," Florence replied to her husband's question. "We can tell ghost stories or roast some marshmallows. Or we could watch a scary movie. Or decorate cookies," she added but all of those things needed them to move and she didn't wanna.

"Oh!" The tall blonde gasped suddenly, placing her hand on Arkadiy's bare chest. "I forgot to tell you. I got a tattoo." She just came right out and said it. She shifted a little, careful not to disturb him as she lifted up her shirt. Her body was already so close to his face that all he had to do was tilt up his chin and he'd be able to see it. It was situated high up on the side of her ribcage, just nestled below her breats and partly concealed by the back band of her black bra.

Florence had chosen a line from one of the poems he'd written for her. The original text had said a sky full of stars and he was only looking at her. It had been too long so she'd only gotten the first five words inked on her skin and she'd gotten them in his handwriting. She probably should have asked his opinion before getting it done but she was in love with it and it had turned out great. She didn't need a tattoo, just like she didn't need her wedding rings to know that their love was going to last forever but it seemed like a good idea. "Ta dah!"

“Mhmm.” Arkasha would have agreed to anything then, Florence’s fingers in his hair, massaging his scalp, his eyelids feeling all of the sudden very heavy. Of course, he didn’t want to watch a scary movie; she had already tricked him into watching something called The Shining, which she promised wasn’t actually that bad. He was much too much of a man to admit that it had completely terrified him, especially now that every time he saw a pair of twins in the few days following their watching he turned and walked the other way. If that wasn’t that bad, he was almost afraid to ask what did qualify as scary.

But thankfully that idea was discarded as soon as it was offered. He loved the weight of her hand on his chest, was expecting a kiss to follow soon after it. He wasn’t expecting her to keep talking, and he certainly wasn’t expecting the talk to be about that.

Arkasha’s eyes snapped back open at his wife’s exclamation. A tattoo? She was already lifting her shirt before he could ask, before he could clarify that she had really just said that she had gotten a tattoo. It wasn’t that he was against them, they had just never been something he felt was necessary. As an aesthetic sort of thing, maybe. Maybe he had just never know the right woman with the right tattoo.

He blinked a couple times, trying to get a good look at what she was showing him. But the writing was messy, partly hidden, and upside down. “What…” he started to ask before pushing himself up, twisting to get a better look. Full of stars was an awfully funny thing to get tattooed, but he wasn’t about to criticize his wife’s choices. But he sat up straighter and used the hand that wasn’t propping himself up to slide up the band of her bra, revealing the first two words.

He would know those words anywhere, had written and rewritten them, and even through the wine clouding his vision, he finally recognized his own handwriting, still a little foreign to himself in this alphabet. The words were on page 36 of his book, a book dedicated to the woman he was staring at. He traced a thumb across the words, still slightly raised from the healing process. “So permanent,” he said, though he wasn’t trying to criticize. It just made the permanence of their promises to each other all the more obvious and he couldn’t suppress a lopsided smile.

“I love it.” He ran his thumb across it one more time as he looked up, nodding in reassurance. “Wait.” He had been leaning in for a kiss when he pulled back. “How long have you had this? How have I not seen it?” He was more impressed than upset, because he was sure he knew how his wife looked, both with and without clothes, yet he had somehow managed to miss it.

His eyes widened as he had another thought. “You don’t want me to get one, do you?” He hoped she didn’t. He wasn’t feeling too keen to explain his irrational fear of needles to her. But if she did, maybe she could just imperius him beforehand. That would be worth it to impress her, right? The door growled and screamed again and Arkasha’s expression relaxed. “Let me see it again.” He tugged at the hem of her shirt and lifted it up once more, taking another long look at the tattoo and other surrounding features.

Florence grinned, shifting a little to better support her husband's weight as he twisted and turned. While she didn't get it for his benefit, she was still worried in case Arkasha didn't like it, disproved of it or downright didn't find her attractive any more. The reason for the inking was simple. Weddings rings could be removed easily but there was no removing this from her skin. To her, this was just another layer that cemented their relationship. Having something so meaningful so close to her was all she'd ever really wanted.

Permanent? "So is how I feel about you," the blonde replied swiftly as she looked down at the top of his head as he looked over her tattoo. It wasn't exactly a spur of the moment thing because she'd always wanted one, she just didn't know what of and where. Of course, Arkadiy had been the answer that was glaring her in the face the entire time. Absolutely nothing and  nobody meant as much to her as he did. She liked having a small part of him that no one else could see apart from her.

As if on cue, Florence shivered a little as he traced the new tattoo, goose bumps rising instantly on her flesh. "Yeah?" She asked with a matching grin as she wiggled excitedly a little on the sofa. Had he hated it, she would of course have altered it. But he loved it and she loved him so she was golden.

The artist frowned, her nose wrinkling cutely as her eyes fluttered back open when she was denied the kiss. She simply laughed. "Remember the two days when I wouldn't let you turn the lights on?" She asked Arkasha with a soft smile. The times they'd had sex were never particularly "traditional". They'd already done some pretty wild stuff on two continents within the last few months and she was beyond keen to just go with the flow. "And some potions to smooth it out," she added, referring to the still faintly irritated skin. "Sorry if I tricked you," she said with a concerned frown. "But I wanted it to be special. I didn't mean to say anything tonight, either," she replied as her frown deepened, eyeing the wine as though annoyed at it.

"No!" The Parisienne gushed with wide eyes and a giggle as her hands shot out to cradle her husband's jaw softly. "Absolutely not, mon coeur, no," she added as she shook her head hastily. "I got this because I wanted to and you shouldn't either, not unless you do want one. If you don't, then that's totally chouette,," she said with a bright smile as she leaned in and kiss the tip of his nose soundly.

At this point, Florence didn't notice the growling door as she gave a snort of laughter as Arkadiy lifted her shirt, her slender body playing twisting and turning as his feather light touch tickled her. Her giggles, increasing in volume, tended to block out the terrified screams of the children as the charm did its work pretty well. She helped him by taking the hem and yanking the garment up and over her head and tossing it aside casually, dislodging her cat eared headband in the process.

"Idi syuda," she told him gently as she adjusted the back band of her bra by pulling it down a little so he could see the full phrase. Pink cheeked and out of breath, she offered him another broad smile. "So," she said quietly as she bumped his nose with hers gently. "How long is left on that charm?" Florence inquired as she slid her hands up his long arms. "And do you want to inspect it fully? Because I think you should~"

It was times like this when Arkasha really questioned his abilities as a poet. Florence was so much more poetic, so light and breezy and had this way with words that he could never even dream of achieving. She was able to put into words exactly how he was feeling. Permanent feelings to match the permanent words. If the rest of his life was as amazing as these past few months had been, it still wouldn’t be good enough.

He nodded, lopsided smile getting wider and toothier. “Yes.” He ran his thumb over the words one more time, though his gaze was focused now on the face next to his. He couldn’t help but return her laugh, still absentmindedly running his thumb down the line. “Of course I do.” Of course, most of their time together blended into one big memory for him, with smaller, tiny snippets standing out above other things. He could never pinpoint a certain thing to a certain day, but he knew he had particularly enjoyed those two days. He shrugged off her apology; it was completely unnecessary. “Next time you don’t want me to see something, you could use a blindfold,” he suggested, mostly seriously, yet still with the hint of a grin on his lips.

Relief washed over him as she reassured him that he would not be needing to get a tattoo. Not now, not soon, not ever. “I might surprise you later,” he offered, though he was more than sure that he would pass out before the needle even touched his skin. Temporary tattoos existed, though, right? Surely he could get a customized one, a heart with her name. Something sweet and completely cheesy and completely perfect. Just like her.

Thankfully they were of one mind and Florence wasted no time in losing her shirt, though Arkasha was quite the gentleman and helped her out of it. He repositioned himself on the sofa, turning to get a proper hold on her, coming towards her as requested, arms wrapping around her now bare waist. His fingers found the tattoo again, idly tracing over it. He loved the feel of her hands on him, anywhere really. He began tracing kisses down her neck to stop at the hollow of her collarbone as she spoke, simply humming gently in agreement to her suggestion.

He placed more kisses along her collarbone to her shoulder, hoping to distract her from his hands now fiddling with her bra strap. But he had to stop, just for a second, to smile again, as the thought of his words, something he had come up with, in reference to his bride, were now permanently etched on her skin. Just as quickly as he had stopped, he had to resume, his hands and lips moving farther south for a proper inspection.

[[so so so done]]